


all my scattering moments

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Hair Washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her sisters would laugh, she thinks, especially Jorelle, laugh to see her cosseting a man so. They would think she bends more than her knee to him. But Dacey knows there is no weakness in her love for Robb Stark. Here there is only strength and certainty. Here she finds strength in her freedom to be soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all my scattering moments

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt: Dacey/Robb with **[this image](http://www.corbisimages.com/images/Corbis-42-15262058.jpg?size=67&uid=06f2f9fd-a2b7-402a-9bbc-eaf37e2174a3)** .

He’s always so responsive to her touch. He’d be nice enough to touch anyway, but it’s all the better when he slouches into her hands, when he angles his head into her fingers the way Grey Wind does when he wants petting. Robb has Grey Wind’s tendency of bumping his head against hers as well, pushing at her cheek with his in a rough, affectionate caress, one that endears him to her far too much for her heart’s safety. The hairs at his nape are standing up now, bristling in pleasure as she works soap through his thick curls. The fire burns low at the hearth, leaving the air pleasantly cool – not as cool as Dacey is accustomed to, but Riverrun is not so bad, she’s found, especially not compared to King’s Landing – the copper of the tub having been warmed by the water where she leans back against it, Robb warm before her where he leans against her.

It’s a reprieve precious enough to be treasured and savored, this chance to relax together, to share a bath and company and sweet touches. Even without the spectre of war, Robb’s life as King is busy and it keeps him from her more often than either of them would like. Dacey’s learned to steal these moments where she may, even if it means preparing him a bath, using her own hands to do the tasks of servants or maids, allowing no others to touch him as long as she could serve in their stead. Her sisters would laugh, she thinks, especially Jorelle, laugh to see her cosseting a man so. They would think she bends more than her knee to him. But Dacey knows there is no weakness in her love for Robb Stark. Here there is only strength and certainty. Here she finds strength in her freedom to be soft.

“Your hair wants cutting,” she tells him, pushing the pads of her fingers in circles over his scalp the way she knows he likes, the way that has his toes curling in the cool air where his feet are propped on the lip of the bath. 

“Perhaps you might cut it for me later?” There is a lazy smile in his voice that she can hear even without seeing it. His head lolls at the pressure of her hands, he is pliant and malleable as clay under her fingers. This too is something her sisters wouldn’t understand. They would think him soft and weak. They would not understand his core of steel, the goodness of his heart that allows him to throw off any protective shell. They are young, yet. There is so much they don’t know.

“Am I to be your steward as well as your guard?” she asks. He makes a surprised sound when she grips his hair and shoves him beneath the surface of the water to rinse, rising sputtering and splashing water all around them, sending it sloshing over the rim of the tub to puddle shiny on the flagstones.

“Fine behavior for a guard, to endanger her King so,” he laughs, giving his head a shake like he’s a dog, shaking it again when she laughs and protests, squealing at the hail of droplets striking her. She fetches him a punch to the back of his shoulder, then allows him to lie back against her once more, his waist settling in the saddle of her hips, close to where her cunt throbs hot for him, always hot, so perpetually desiring his touch that she’s had to have more smallclothes made for how often she soaks them through. It should be embarrassing, but Dacey has no room for shame, not when he wants her as much as she him, not when her constant state of arousal spurs his need so. Not when it can bring him to his knees to lap eager and insistent at her cunt with the slightest provocation.

“Is that all you are for me?” he says after several long moments where the only sound is the crackle of the fire, the music of the water moving around them. “Only my guard?” She makes an impatient noise, blows air through her lips like a horse.

“You know full well what I am to you,” she says, her words gruff, but her touch softens yet more, she cuffs his nape between thumb and fingers to squeeze and rub until he moans in appreciation.

“I do,” he agrees. “You’re clearly my thrall, just like in the Iron Isles.” She laughs, a sharp bark that echoes off the high sides of the bathtub. He is entirely too cheeky, this boy King. All too cheeky and all too impertinent. If she didn’t think he’d take it entirely the wrong way, she’d threaten to turn him over her knee and fetch him a good spanking. But then, she thinks at the heat that coils in her belly at the thought, maybe it wouldn’t be taking it the wrong way after all. She shakes her head, dispels the idea. That’s play for another time.

“Such a lovely waking dream you’re having, my good King. If anyone is in thrall, it is you to me.”

“That I am,” he says, and suddenly his voice holds none of the teasing, none of the laughter. It holds only honestly, only need and love, and it makes Dacey’s heart ache as much as her cunt.

“Perhaps we are in thrall to each other,” she says quietly, just as much honesty in her own voice, just as much need and love. She feels him still against her, his body coming to attention like a hound treeing a squirrel. It’s rare for her to be so honest; Dacey has always been more comfortable being open with her body than with her emotions.

“Yes,” he says. “I like that.” His hands curl around her knees, hold them as if they’re something precious and breakable. She feels his heart beating through his ribs, hears all the unspoken words that hang on his tongue and crowd his voice, all the things that exist between them and make her feel as young as he is, as if she is a mere girl again and he is the first boy to touch her body and her heart. That burn starts up behind her ribs once more, it sends warm tendrils out through her veins, curling through her, curling towards him, like ivy stretching to reach the sun.

The ache in her cunt can be soothed later. For now she only pulls him back to her breast, one hand banding his chest, the other tangled in his drying curls. She turns his head to her kiss, drinks from his lips. She holds him to her with both arms, letting him soothe the sweet ache in her heart, the one she hopes to never lose. 

 

_ title from a quote by Ellen Birdseye Wheaton _


End file.
